There’s no strength left over for any more blood, any more madness. The people have suffered enough. Now they go shopping, picking out drapes and lace curtains, wallpaper, choosing between different kinds of frying pans. They like everything colorful because it all used to be so gray and ugly. We’re as giddy as kids at the sight of a washing machine with seventeen settings. My parents are gone: My mother for seven years now, and my father for eight, but I still haven’t used up all of the matches my mother stockpiled. We still have their grain. And their salt. Mama would buy everything she
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